


Operation Yuletide

by astramaxima (shotgunsinlace)



Series: Normal Rules Did Not Apply [5]
Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)
Genre: Chivalry, Christmas, Christmas Party, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Domestic, First Christmas, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Public Display of Affection, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff, Sort of? - Freeform, Suggestive Themes, Totally Not a Hallmark Story, technically their second but oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28235835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/astramaxima
Summary: Stone isn’t a vindictive person, but no ego is immune to a good stroke when the world’s most powerful man with five doctorates and an IQ above 300 trips over 178 centimeters of pure optimism, unconditional devotion, and feelings for the season—especially when faced with a mandatory military-hosted and government-sanctioned charity event. Lucky for them both, Robotnik is a man with a plan.—Officially part of a series but can definitely be enjoyed as a standalone fic!
Relationships: Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone
Series: Normal Rules Did Not Apply [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768222
Comments: 28
Kudos: 40





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy four chapters of nothing but unadulterated holiday fluff.

_“Life is not a romcom, Agent Stone,”_ Dr. Robotnik had once yelled inches away from his nose back when Stone was still a rookie prone to asking the wrong questions. _“You wanna know what life is? Life is a shitty kid’s movie where everything you do, no matter how groundbreakingly genius and revolutionary it is, will be considered a joke. Do you know why? Because you’re the zany supervillain who gets trumped by the annoying underdog protag who saves the day with the power of friendship! So, no, I don’t prefer almonds over cashews in my energy bars and I most certainly do not pay you to ask STUPID QUESTIONS. I do want extra matcha on that shake, though.”_

Stone isn’t a vindictive person, but he is human, after all, and no ego is immune to a good stroke when the world’s most powerful man with five doctorates and an IQ above 300 trips over 178 centimeters of pure optimism and unconditional devotion.

Life may not be a romantic comedy 100% of the time, but their line of work is certainly comedic at the best and worst of times. As for Stone, he’s a romantic. A pragmatic one, but a romantic, nonetheless. The past year and a half has proven to be sheer madness as they dodged the litany of bullets slugged their way (that’s mostly their own fault but when has Robotnik ever been discreet), but they both remain as steadfast as day one. Stone certainly has a few more physical scars to show for it, but it’s nothing the Doctor hasn’t kissed better while hidden away in his lab.

As for the romcom part of things, Stone is fairly certain the last sixty hours could be neatly cut and edited into a funny little montage at the beginning of a Hallmark movie while a preppy instrumental version of _Winter Wonderland_ plays in the background:

• Arrived from a three week mission abroad (Singapore, a special touch of discretion was needed and who better than Agent “Strikes Fear into the Hearts of Millions With a Single Disarming Smile” Stone to get the job done without risking an international catastrophe?)

• Two hours of sleep before bursting into the lab of one cranky genius who would have ravished him on his workbench if not for a very rude video call interruption by Commander Walters at 7am.

• “A charity ball, and the president-elect strongly encourages your attendance if you wish to secure funds for the upcoming fiscal year,” said Walters. It was followed by a very meanspirited: “he can suck on my hollies,” from Robotnik.

• Two hours of arguing, a disgruntled Doctor bullied into accepting the invitation as long as Stone would be allowed to be his plus one, only to learn that Stone himself had an invitation extended to him due to his previous service record.

• A ten hour workday: constant ranting about how much Robotnik hates the holidays after Stone let slip his excitement about their first real Christmas together. (They were already dating by this time last year, but Stone had been shipped overseas to see to the first of many comically bad timed missions, causing him to spend that Christmas drunk off his ass on sake and KFC.)

_The reaction hadn’t gotten to him, honestly. After more than a decade of serving in the military followed by a shadowy government organization, Stone has gotten used to not making a big deal out of it. Most holiday seasons are spent either working through the night or, once again, drunk off his ass on whatever expensive booze his superiors buy him as the most impersonal gift ever. He is well aware of Robotnik’s own aversion to the mere idea of festivities of any sort, humbug that he is, but Stone confesses to himself, in the smallest voice in the darkest pits of his heart, that he had hoped for even a little hint of_ something _from his romantic partner._

_His partner who, in another one of those freaky mind meld stunts of his, takes Stone by surprise._

_“If you’re really set on going to the stupid thing, I guess I could tag along for an hour_ tops _,” Robotnik grits through his teeth as he powers down the lab for the night. “Then we’re even for Abkhazia.”_

_Stone hovers behind him, hands in his jacket pockets while bouncing on his heels. “I don’t think your attendance is optional,” he says, recalling the way Walters had nearly pulled the ‘disappointed parental figure’ card. “A new administration means the possibility of a dramatic increase in funding.”_

_Robotnik crosses the floor with hunched shoulders, mustache twisted as he checks the girls one more time, muttering at one of them. “They’re called meetings, Stone. Missives. A text with nothing but emojis. This? This is a publicity stunt and I’m not sure if you’re aware… BUT I’M THE OPPOSITE OF A PUBLIC FIGURE.” He shushes the drone he’s polishing with his sleeve, gently apologizing to it for his outburst._

_“All you have to do is say the word,” Stone says as he moves to stand beside Robotnik, dragging his thumb along the powered-down eye of the drone. “I could come up with a fool-proof excuse to get you out of it, if you really want me to.”_

_Robotnik seems to consider it. “You’d still have to attend.”_

_“I can survive two hours surrounded by elite government officials without breaking a sweat, babe. Besides, it probably won’t even make it to the two hour mark. I’m sure everyone would much rather spend Christmas Eve with family than co-workers.”_

Stone will forever remember the look Robotnik gave him at that very moment, an almost silent plea drowned by the vitriol of obligations and expectations. But there was something else there, something deeper and almost vulnerable that had made Stone’s heartbeat quicken.

_“Abkhazia.”_

_“Doctor, no one can really force you—”_

_“We’re going. One hour. The first person to say something below the expected level of stupid gets to dance with my babies.”_

_Stone watches him for a long moment, threading through the potential meanings behind Robotnik’s words before remembering that Robotnik is never anything but honest. Stubborn and evasive when he needs to be, yes, but always honest. Especially with Stone._

_The idea of an elaborate Christmas party makes him gag—but he is willing to put up with it for Stone’s sake._

_Or, funnier yet… “Our invitations are separate.”_

_“No duh.”_

_“…am I your plus one, or are you mine?” At Robotnik’s flush, Stone places a hand on his bicep for a little squeeze. “Are we…are you really ready to go public?”_

_It’s one of those moments in which Stone can appreciate the flashes of hazel in those chocolaty eyes of his, as they gleam in the low glow of the lab. So beautifully human and invitingly warm, and only for him. Only ever for Stone._

_He cups Robotnik’s cheek and brings them nose to nose, his thumb brushing soft stubble for the first time in weeks. “You know we’re the military’s worst kept secret, right?”_

_Robotnik snorts and shuts his eyes. “Agent Stone, I think it’s high time we make that their problem.”_

_Stone takes Robotnik home that night but only in a literal sense. The two of them don’t make it past the living room where they crash in their work clothes, limbs sprawled on Stone’s couch._

Thirty-eight hours ago, Stone woke up with a sore neck and the excitement of an eight year old running through his parents’ house because, at long last, Christmas was at their doorstep. 

After moving Robotnik to his bedroom and leaving a note on the night table explaining his absence, Stone kissed his forehead before changing into the first sweater he could find and running out the door.

For the following act of his delightfully unexpected romcom in progress, Stone had sat in his Rover and relied on faintly remembered lyrics to search for the one song he knew would perfectly encompass the airiness he felt. With an “aha!”, he pressed play on the cheesy pop song he once heard in a Christmas movie. He took two deep breaths and sent a text. _I need your help with something._

• Visited the only other person Stone somewhat trusts in their line of work, which led to a door slammed in his face. Unfortunately for Agent Olivera, the amount of blackmail material Stone has on her left her no choice. They struck a truce in exchange for breakfast.

• Coffee cakes, two Venti hazelnut macchiatos, one loaded conversation that ended with Olivera solemnly nodding her head. “My condolences. Apparently, I’ve been in the wrong thinking you had taste when it came to choosing romantic partners.”

• Two stores in the city were a bust and Stone wished he had slipped on a pair of comfortable shoes rather than rushing out in his usual work pair. He knew gift hunting would be the ordeal of the century, but he had expected himself to at least commit to _something_ an hour in. 

• _What’s there to get for a man who can easily build or buy anything he wants?_

• “I got nothing,” Stone said, walking out of the third store empty handed, to which Olivera replied with: “Slap a bow on yourself and call it a day since you’re just the gift that keeps on giving.”

• Lunch introduced someone trying to pickpocket Stone while they indulged in sushi. It’s the first time he breaks someone else’s finger so close to home. He and Olivera get thrown out for causing a scene. The unagi tasted bad, anyway. 

• “Snow would be really nice.”

• His watch beeped three in the afternoon when it hit him, bringing him to a dead stop in an overcrowded strip on Christmas Eve eve. He was thinking too much like Robotnik and not at all like himself. “I think I know what to get him,” Stone said, grabbing Olivera’s arm and dragging her away from the avenue, and towards the quieter shops downtown. Uncertain about his choice, she respected it anyway.

• Five in the evening, Olivera dropped off at home, Stone summoned to the main office on Walters’ orders: post-mission debriefing reports, two conferences, and last minute discussions on security procedures despite Stone being a guest.

• Ten in the evening and he shot Robotnik a quick text: _weird day, pick you up tomorrow?_ , to which Robotnik instantly replied with: _No need._ Then radio silence.

And now, all caught up with the madness since his arrival from Singapore, Stone paces outside of the event hall, ready to initiate the third act.

December 24th and here he stands, done up to the nines in his Air Force dress blues and hating every second of it. When they called it a gala event, he had expected the usual dress code: the average suit and tie and polished shoes. He hasn’t actively served in the military in nearly two decades, and while he holds no real respect towards any of its institutions, he considers the request of him showing up in uniform unorthodox and off-putting, if not a little unfair.

Dress blues at a big name event with the upcoming presidential administration in attendance is a whole new ball game of agonizingly strict etiquette he needs to follow. Tonight, Stone is expected to not only keep an eye on Robotnik, but to be on his best behavior. Walters made sure to cover all the bases. Can’t afford to lose funding due to the two loose cannons courteously invited by the president-elect himself.

Honestly, it just makes Stone want to misbehave.

He won’t, but he wishes he would. He’s tired, frustrated, and quite frankly doesn’t want to be here when he could be having a Non-Christmas-Related night in with his beau. As exciting as the prospect of celebrating with Robotnik is, the prickle at the back of his neck tells him something is bound to go wrong to the point in which the Doctor will never want anything to do with the holiday ever again.

Maybe because it’s 9:00 PM and Robotnik still isn’t here, and the speeches have been made, hands shaken, and donations taken.

Stone would misbehave if Robotnik wanted them to. Make a scandal out of it all.

“Shoulders so sharp I’m scared I’ll accidentally cut myself if I don’t watch my step,” Olivera says, joining him outside. She offers Stone one of the two champagne glasses on hand, which he gratefully takes. “At ease, soldier. He’ll show up.”

“I know.”

“You and the new First Family seem to have gotten off to a good start. The VP talked big.”

Stone knocks back the drink in one go, then returns the glass. “Makes a world of difference when we’re no longer the only shoehorned diversity tokens. I can’t decide if it would’ve been better or worse with him there for the conversation.”

Music seeps out from inside the hall, jingle bells joining the live band as they play something festive yet respectable. This late into the night, everyone has bunched up into their own cliques now that the formalities are over with, and the gossip begins to spread quicker than liquid.

Leaning against the banister, Stone pushes the garish green garland out of the way. Whoever decorated definitely went over the top, but he doesn’t expect much out of military-hosted events.

“I don’t think they’ll be too hung up on whatever aspects of diversity you bring to the table, specifically,” Olivera says, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. “I’m betting it’ll be more of an issue regarding a conflict of interests.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Robin.”

“You got it.”

Stone sighs and is taken by surprise at the puff it makes. “I thought we weren’t expecting any cold weather.”

“We’re not, last time I checked. Lower fifties.”

Across the night sky, heavy clouds begin to gather. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but they look heavy enough to fall. “Be nothing short of a miracle if it decides to snow.”

“Who knows,” Olivera says, bumping against his side, “Christmas miracle? You two could probably go ice skating tomorrow. Bet he hasn’t tried that.”

“Suddenly invested in my love life, I see.”

“Stone, you literally dragged me out of bed because your useless ass freaked out over getting your boyfriend a Christmas present. I’m not invested, you’ve chained me in front of the livestream of your life and now I get to live vicariously through you because not all of us can land a date with the person they’ve been in love with for however many years and have what may potentially be the most romantic holiday season of their life.”

Stone side-eyes her. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose before remembering her makeup, Olivera waves him off. “Let’s survive the holidays and then you can pay me back.”

Nodding his approval and sharing a muted laugh, Stone’s attention is caught by a distant familiar hum. Eyebrows furrowed, he casts a look around himself before catching a glimpse of it just out of the corner of his eye—the sleek silhouette of a machine he has only ever seen nestled in repose or propped up to be worked on underneath.

“What in the…” Olivera begins, but Stone doesn’t stick around to hear the last of it.

He leaps over the railing onto the neatly manicured landscaping underneath, the near silent hum growing imperceptibly louder as the craft begins its descent to hover inches above asphalt before deploying the landing gear.

Stone had no idea Robotnik had gotten it fully functional.

Robotnik who, as the canopy retreats, sits inside of the flyer with a grin. “Always best to be fashionably late.”

“Doctor!”

“The weather decided to give me a hard time, so I taught it a very important lesson,” he says, offering no further explanation as he climbs out with remarkable grace thanks to a retreating set of mysteriously physical holographic steps. “I also didn’t want to come, but it’s the bare minimum I can do.” The _for you_ goes unsaid, but Stone appreciates it regardless.

Not as much as he appreciates the man in front of him.

In a surprising turn of events, Robotnik’s already impeccable person is somehow sharper than it tends to be on the daily. The angular cut of his tuxedo—a tuxedo!—accents the curve of his shoulders and waist, tapering off into a pair of impressive coattails. But most shocking of all is the fact that Robotnik is dressed in _white_. It makes a distant feeling echo deep inside of Stone’s chest, a boyish dream steeped in dated traditions.

“You look so handsome,” Stone says, sounding breathless even to himself as he steps forward to adjust the red bow tie. “More so than usual.”

Robotnik beams at him, straightening up his permanently hunched back to present like a peacock. “I _am_ a gift to this ungrateful planet.”

“You are,” Stone readily agrees, pausing when he catches himself about to lean in for a kiss. A brief look over his shoulder confirms his suspicions. A small crowd has gathered outside of the hall, dazzled by the display of technology that, by official government and military standards, should not exist. “We should head inside. Get this over with.”

“Timer starts the moment we walk in through those doors,” Robotnik says, tapping away at his watch. The flyer beeps a funny little tune behind him, security engaged. “Let’s raise hell, Agent Stone. Make these losers regret interrupting our usual Thursday schedule.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

“Well?”

Stone stares at him for a moment, trying to decipher what the pointed glance to his arm, face, and the entrance means before it fully dawns on him. “Oh!” Clicking his heels together and standing at attention, Stone offers up his arm. “Pardon my manners.”

Robotnik sniffs loudly, grabbing hold of the crook of Stone’s elbow as linking arms would be too awkward given their difference in height. “You’re lucky your looks and charisma make up for your lack of perpetual intelligence.”

“But I’m _your_ slightly above average person. Which makes me twice as lucky.”

“Appalling,” Robotnik remarks, but the word lacks any real meaning as Stone can feel him suppressing the urge to bounce in his steps.

The medals on his jacket are heavy, but they do not carry the same weight as his gut. Stone is nervous, more so than ever before, and with good reason. However, the feeling isn’t too unsimilar to that of butterflies, reminding him that since his youth, only Robotnik has been capable of eliciting such a sensation. The man keeps him on his toes, makes him feel alive, seen, worth being loved. And so, he takes it. Stone takes that weight and holds it tight, that constant beautiful reminder of what they have worked for and what they have achieved.

The muttering of the crowd grows silent as they approach the staircase, and Stone holds fast. Chin up and eyes trained forward, he warms with pride as Robotnik continues to meet his stride without break, equally unflinching.

As they cross the threshold and the watch beeps the beginning of its countdown, Stone considers the first and hardest of hurdles completed. Going forward will likely not be smooth sailing, but at the very least, he knows Robotnik has got his back.

Not that he ever doubted it.


	2. At Ease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any resemblance to actual American politicians is purely coincidental, I swear. Anyhoo, enjoy the sheer chaos.

There is something charming about Robotnik putting zero effort into pretending each conversation he has does not equate to passing a kidney stone roughly the size of a dime. His attempts at civility are made useless by follow-up remarks that make the usual military bigwigs bristle at the rudeness but welcomed by the snotfaced CEOs and faceless billionaires that pull the strings attached to those in the public eye. Stone has tried to make himself as incognito as physically possible all throughout the night, but none of it matters now that Robotnik hangs on his arm like a Hollywood starlet.

The band continues to play its jazzy medley of Christmas songs in the background, drowned out only by the occasional bout of laughter from some indiscernible point in the event hall. In the meantime, Stone continues to escort Robotnik down the list of officials Walters unkindly requested.

“The true Christmas miracle would be getting on any of these idiots’ good graces,” the Doctor mock murmurs at Stone, letting go of his elbow to press a hand low on his back instead. The gesture makes Stone blush. “Even a brainless sack of potatoes like Walters should’ve seen this coming.”

“I’d say to maybe tone it down a bit but…honestly?” Stone says, fidgeting with his cuffs now that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Who needs private investors,” Robotnik finishes for him. “There’s only one man here that is on my list.”

“It’s the Vice President you’re going to want to butter up, if that’s even possible.”

“Forty-five minutes on the clock.”

They’re intercepted before they can reach their reserved table, Robotnik whipping around with cutting words locked and loaded on the tip of his tongue.

The President-Elect is a graying man, much older than Robotnik, so frail looking Stone wonders how he even managed to make it through his campaign. He has a type of ‘friendly neighbor who hosts barbecues on the Fourth of July’ aura that doesn’t inspire much confidence in Stone. It’s always this type of character that hides venomous fangs under the guise of amicability, but he figures no other kind of person would try to become leader of the free world.

“If it isn’t the man of the hour,” the President-Elect says, holding out a hand to gesture to Robotnik rather than offering it for a shake. The man at least does his research. “So nice of you to join us this evening, Dr. Robotnik, I know you’re a very busy man.”

“Clearly not busy enough to stronghold into attending the classroom’s fifth grade Christmas party,” Robotnik blurts out a sarcastic laugh, waving the man off. “But, hey, anything to make science cool and hip again after the nightmare that was this past administration, amirite?!”

“Well, if there’s one thing that’s true about U.S. presidents…” the President-Elect starts, lowering his voice as if to share a state secret, “they’re just Russian dolls. Heh. Chock-full of themselves.”

Stone wishes he could evaporate.

The abysmally awkward exchange is saved by the incoming First Lady introducing herself with all the self-assuredness of someone who knows how to diffuse any sort of situation. Her title catches Robotnik’s attention and, in a surprising act of social decency, asks her to elaborate.

“An official PhD in Education and four honorary doctorates, but nothing to write home about,” she says, hand to her chest as she laughs, patting her husband’s shoulder. “From one Doctor to another, I’m excited for future collaborations.”

Robotnik narrows his eyes, icily staring at the woman before offering his hand for the first (and likely the last time) this evening. “My people will be in contact with your people,” he says, returning his hand to Stone’s back as if to mimic her gesture and leave no room for doubt.

“We’re looking forward to working with you fine gentlemen,” the President-Elect says before the First Lady scoots him away, casting Robotnik an apologetic nod.

Stone watches them go, crossing his arms over his chest. “What just happened?”

“Performative politics. Now, where’s our table? I’m ready for the hors d'oeuvre.”

Said table is blissfully and suspiciously at the back of the event hall, and while Stone recognizes it as the jab it is, he is also grateful for it being out of the way. But that also means there are a good four hundred people to walk through—four hundred sets of eyes that keep drifting to them since Robotnik’s arrival.

“Whoever decorated this place needs to get fired ASAP,” the Doctor says, guiding them down the red carpet whose glitter glistens under the white sparkling lights. “Gold with red and white was so last decade.”

“Not to mention the fire hazard that are all these candles. There’s at least fifteen per table and someone’s bound to stumble around drunk,” Stone agrees, attention split between the hand possessively on him and the people turning to murmur in their wake. “Not as eye-catching as the two of us, I guess.”

“Thirty more minutes.”

“You could also take your hand off me.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Absolutely not,” says Stone, leaning into Robotnik’s side as the tip of his ears burn. Tonight, either they secure what was promised or his career comes to a screeching end. And quite honestly? He doesn’t care.

“Careful now, Agent. Walters won’t see too kindly to you desecrating those medals you’re wearing.”

“You mean, he won’t award me with another because I’m happily in love with another man?”

Robotnik shrugs. “Oh, I’m sure they’re all nice and comfy with the idea of it. The brownie points for progressiveness will do _wonders_ in the public eye! As long as you don’t show off in front of their… macaroni salad? Should’ve gone to McDonald’s beforehand. I’d take reheated plastic over this any damn day. World’s richest country and they’re serving MACARONI SALAD.” Sporadic laughter and a ‘say it like it is!’ accompanies his outburst two tables down. “That’s a lie. We’re second to Qatar but these monkeys will believe anything that makes them think they’re numero uno.”

They overshoot their table and Stone follows without question, moving past the drunken stragglers at the back of the event hall when Robotnik takes his hand and pulls him into the service hallway.

The music is faint through the wall, secondary to the cacophony of voices and general noises coming from the kitchens. Ambient lighting turns sickishly fluorescent yellow, the floors covered in clean but worn checkered tiles that match the equally ancient wallpaper that looks to have been plastered over popcorn walls.

Pretty apt commentary on the state of the country, Stone thinks to himself before all thoughts scurry off into nothingness when Robotnik very carefully pushes him up against the wall.

“Following surveillance patterns, no one will leave that kitchen within the next ten minutes.”

“Are you—mph!” Stone’s question is interrupted by Robotnik swiftly catching his mouth in a not-so-chaste kiss, one that speaks of weeks of longing so sweet Stone’s knees quiver with bliss. The Doctor’s hands rest at Stone’s elbows, as if that touch alone could hold him up, but they quickly move to his waist when Stone laces his fingers behind Robotnik’s neck.

They part but only barely, standing forehead to forehead as Stone licks his lips with a tiny laugh.

“Memory cortex remains intact,” Robotnik says, “one week or three, taste receptors continue to function at optimum capacity.”

“Even after the champagne?”

“You can garnish the vanilla milkshake, but the vanilla will always come through.”

“Do I taste like vanilla?”

Robotnik pretends to think about it. “Nothing about you is vanilla, Stone. You’re the complete opposite, dressed in your prissy blues and tonguing your superior in the utility hallway where anyone can walk in at any moment and catch us in the act.”

Emboldened by the statement, Stone releases Robotnik’s neck to skim his fingers down the rich fabric of his tuxedo, coming around to grab himself a fistful of ass. “You brought me back here, Doctor.”

“And you’d tell me to get on my knees if you felt like it.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He doesn’t intend for the words to sound so heady but judging by the way Robotnik’s mouth curls into a wicked grin, Stone is beginning to think the least they can do is sneak into the bathroom. _How’s that for something you never thought you’d do?_

Stone leans up for another kiss, chest aflutter when Robotnik meets him halfway against that garish wall. He smells of cologne—something new and soft in Stone’s nose, almost flowery and—it clicks right then, and he would have laughed if his tongue weren’t preoccupied halfway down Robotnik’s throat. But before he entirely processes the revelation, someone clears their throat at dangerous proximity.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, gentlemen.”

The force behind the words has them both freeze in place, eyes snapping open so suddenly Stone is grateful for the wall behind him else dizziness take him. He can feel a different type of heat suffuse his body, the unpleasant kind, as he meets Robotnik’s own bugged-out gaze. For the first time in his life, Stone witnesses genuine fear in his eyes.

“Commander,” Stone greets as casually as he possibly can, straightening up and gently guiding Robotnik to do the same. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Walters just looks tired as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, Agent Stone, I’m not sure there is. Apparently, even basic codes of conduct seem to be too difficult a task for you to manage right now.”

“I’m currently off duty, sir.”

“Still. You don’t see me hiding behind the bleachers.”

“I feel sorry for your wife,” Robotnik snaps, software finally catching up to the hardware. He turns to Walters with his shoulders squared, and Stone quickly grabs his elbows to keep him from doing anything that would further jeopardize their enterprise. Besides, they had prepared for this. Just not in this scenario.

Walters holds up his hands, shuffling his feet. “It’s not any of my business what you two get up to, so long as it’s not on our dime. Deadlines to meet, you know the deal. Big plans this coming year, as said by the First Family themselves. That was quite the impression you two made.”

Stone hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. “I’m earnest to see what the next four years bring,” he says, cautiously trying to gauge the situation. Beside him, Robotnik is still looking like a bird who’s been kicked out of the nest before he can learn to fly. “If you’ll excuse us, we should be getting back to our table. We still have our donations to go through,” Stone laughs tightly, only vaguely perplexed by how he slipped a _we_ in there.

“By all means, don’t let me keep you. However, Agent Stone, a quick word? Super casual.”

The wretched twisting in his gut roots him to the spot despite his nod. “I’m all ears, sir.”

Walters’ attention flicks between the two of them. “Robotnik, why don’t you rejoin the party? I’m sure there’s a little havoc you could always wreak to liven things up. I was seconds away from falling asleep at my table.”

Robotnik doesn’t move, Stone picking up on his imperceptible apprehension. He can see it in the sheen of his eyes, a thousand thoughts and courses of action playing themselves out before making a decision that will best benefit him. What the man lacks in social etiquette he makes up for in genius, flawlessly running the statistics until he has his numbers.

“Agent Stone!” Robotnik says, holding up a gloved finger before patting Stone on the back, finally breaking out of his jammed stupor. “Call me, beep me, if you wanna reach me. I trust you’re enough of a grownup to handle yourself.”

“Of course, Doctor,” Stone says, confused but intrigued by the sudden burst of manic glee. “Five minutes, tops.”

Robotnik is gone before Stone’s next breath, and he’s never felt so ready to pick a fight in his life. Rationally, Walters is yet to pose a threat despite his initial discomfort, but he’s certain he is not going to like what is about to be said.

“Genuinely, I do not care,” Walters begins, “I may be an old coot but I’m no villain.” At Stone’s lack of a reply, he continues. “Earlier this evening I had a lengthy conversation with the President-Elect concerning his security detail during the inauguration, and he expressed interest in signing you onto his personal team. He’s read your file, and you’re aware how hostile this election year has been.”

“I’d be honored to stand alongside the Secret Service,” Stone says, staring Walters head on, “for the day.”

“This got me thinking what a wonderful opportunity this would be for you. Long term, you know?”

“I do not know, sir, no. But thank you for your concern.”

Walters takes a step closer, hands on his back like an old man rather than the pinnacle of military prowess he is meant to portray. “Listen, son, you and Robotnik? Old news. Everyone here knows about… well, that. And the truth of the matter is, the only real problem here is a drop in productivity, which makes the solution really simple. Take the job, that cuts out the distraction, and at the end of the day you two can do whatever you do. Make merry, be happy.”

Stone jams his hands in his pockets, abandoning his stance. “I run his books, and I’m not following what you mean by a drop in productivity. During these past twelve months we’ve seen an increase of a 110% that wasn’t initially projected at end-of-year predictions, and that was solely on government contracts, with an extra 30% from private sectors.”

“Compared to the 230% from last year. We read the reports, Agent.”

The sickening realization should come as no surprise, not when he’s witnessed the blatant exploitation of every asset under the government’s thumb. That Robotnik would be treated the same only reinforces the soullessness of their operation, and Stone digs deep for that balanced blankness that gets him out of the deadliest of situations to carry him through this conversation.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Walters says, shaking his head, “it may sound cruel, but Robotnik is the type of person who thrives off success, needs purpose to define him. Most geniuses do. Something about focusing brain pathways, or something along those lines…”

There’s respect towards one’s former commanding officer, and older yet, respect towards one’s elders, and at the very moment, Stone has neither. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Yes, yes, go on. Let me have it.”

“Don’t _ever_ claim to know what that man needs. If you did, you’d know that removing me from the equation would plummet productivity into the negatives because you won’t have an asset to begin with.”

“Full of ourselves, aren’t we?”

“I know my worth just as much as I know his.” Fixing his jacket, Stone sets his jaw. “You can inform the President-Elect that I am honored but have no choice but to decline. I have a prior arrangement that needs seeing to.”

Walters’ sigh is accompanied by a slow nod as he debates his options. “Are you two… what.”

“My file is easily accessible if ever you need answers to my marital status,” he answers coolly. “Title VII states—”

“I know the law, Stone. I’m not the enemy here.”

Before Stone can contest the statement, the ringing sound of feedback through the speakers has them both wincing.

“Uh, hey, everyone,” says a muffled voice that, after a second of deliberation, Stone recognizes as Olivera’s. “Can I get your attention for all of maybe five minutes?”

“What the blazes is that woman up to?” Walters asks. Stone answers with a confused shrug.

More feedback. “Ah, sorry ‘bout that! Having some mild technical difficulties that should be resolved—” a crackle of electricity “—there we go. I think. Are we good? Anyhoo, for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Robin Olivera, I like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain, and I’ll be your MC for the next… maybe three minutes. Or however long it takes for you people to get me off here.”

“Oh ho ho, Agent O, you might just be on to something there! We all know just how much everyone here just haaates fun. I should know. It’s why I never get invited to fancy schmancy parties.”

“Oh no,” is all Stone has the time to say before the deep rumbles of a saxophone sends him into action, leaving Walters to fumble in the hallway. He rounds the corner, coming face to face with the spectacle currently unfolding at the makeshift stage area where the band had been playing less than twenty minutes ago.

Olivera, now donning a Santa hat, crosses her arms in Robotnik’s general direction. Robotnik, now with tinsel draped around his neck and holding a saxophone, sticks his tongue out at her.

“Any-diddly-do-way,” he says, voice amplified by a fob mic, “last I checked I was invited to a Christmas party, not a funeral march. And we _all know_ how patriotic we get over both. Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in-between, I’m here to get the party started. Pyrotechnics and all.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Stone repeats, mind going into overdrive on how to end this as quickly and cleanly as possible.

“Now, Doctor,” Olivera starts, delivering her best _I’m on a Saturday Night Live skit_ impression, “should we—” honk “—maybe si—” honk “—SING SOMETHING?!” Robotnik keeps interrupting her with the saxophone to the guests’ delight.

“That’s a great idea! What’s better than a good ol’ singalong? Whattaya say, folks?”

“He’s lost it,” Walters exclaims, finally catching up to Stone. “What the hell are you three up to?!”

Any other person would agree, but Stone marvels that Robotnik would gift these bootlickers a rare glance into his usual self. A self only Stone is ever privy to. However stressful a scheme this is turning out to be, Stone can’t help but be oddly proud of him and whatever this little episode is meant to convey.

The saxophone’s obnoxious honking transitions into a precise tempo, one that’s hesitantly picked up by the band at Olivera’s thumbs up. Half of the audience joins in with rhythmic clapping, most of them non-military personnel unaware of the inevitable chaos Robotnik is notorious for. An electric guitar kicks the number into a swanky tune that has people cheering when recognition sets in.

Olivera unleashes her best _Carlton_ as she joins in with a surprisingly acceptable singing voice that is nothing like the shrill shrieking that sometimes rings through the office halls. _“Rockin’ around the Christmas tree, at the Christmas party hop—”_

Stone wonders if he never got on the plane back from Singapore, if he’s knocked out in some seedy alleyway with high-end officials threatening to pull off his toenails one by one. Maybe the champagne had something in it and he’s hallucinating this whole thing. He is a man who has seen a great many things throughout his life, things he cannot explain and things he wishes he could not, but the image of Robotnik dressed to the nines, adorned with tinsel, and delivering a sick saxophone solo while dueting the most overplayed Christmas song alongside another agent Stone had no idea the Doctor had ever interacted with…is a lot.

A small crowd gathers in front of the stage to dance—the President-Elect included, doing a little jig that’s too hip-centric to be safe for a man his age—and were it not for Walters and a smattering of other officials shooting Stone murderous looks that demand he stop the Doctor ASAP, he would have considered it endearing. He sees no problem in the impromptu entertainment, nothing is on fire (yet), and the important guests of the evening seem to be enjoying themselves.

It’s almost as if the military _doesn’t want_ people to view Robotnik in any sort of positive fashion. As if a non-hostile business relationship between Robotnik and the incoming administration were a threat to the sanctity of elite militarism. A shame, really. Stone has no doubt that with positive reinforcement and a healthier work environment the Doctor would flourish and lead them all into a new era of scientific exploration and innovation.

Stone grins at Walters and doesn’t flinch when a loud pop goes off overhead. He moves out of the way when a shower of sparks fall on his shoulders.

Everyone is too enthralled to notice the miniature drones now in position throughout the hall, and Stone marvels at the complete disregard of the protocols he had been made to go through just yesterday.

_“—in a new, old, fash—ioned waaay!”_ they sing in unison, and Stone braces himself.

The drones emit a frankly stunning and realistic display of holographic pyrotechnics, bright bursts of color lighting up the room like a night sky on New Year’s Eve. 

And just as loud.

The unexpected booms send the crowd into a frenzy, people torn between diving under tables and running out the door. Security personnel shout orders, telling people to stay down and not panic, but it’s all for naught when Robotnik’s laughter echoes throughout the frantic event hall, mic and speakers still broadcasting.

Stone makes for the door, dodging flailing limbs and incensed government officials, but he’s caught by the back of his jacket before he can make it out.

Robotnik spins him around amidst the chaos, smacking a loud kiss to his lips as the event hall devolves into sheer madness. Despite the shoves, miniature non-explosions, and screaming, Stone laughs near hysterically at the overwhelming unreality of it all. “That’ll teach ‘em to invite me to things,” the Doctor says, throwing the fob into the swirling mob. “Let’s blow this joint!”

Their hour has been up for a good while.

They ride the wave out of the hall, jumping over the railing to avoid the wall of people spilling out into the lawn en masse. Stone is yanked by the arm towards the flyer, never once breaking the brisk stride until he has to stop. He slips, losing his footing and nearly hitting the snow beneath him were it not for Robotnik’s lightning quick reflexes.

“Snow? It actually snowed?” Stone straightens up, looking around himself as a burst of excited laughter bubbles out of him. “What the hell!”

“Never say I’ve never done anything for you.”

Stone glares at Robotnik while shaking his head. “No. There is literally no way you could have possibly done something like this.”

“Doubting my genius after all these years?”

“That’s not possible!” Stone is startled by his own outburst, shocked and elated and a little wary when the crazed shouting dies down to something manageable courtesy of security’s sluggish management.

“In that case,” Robotnik spins on his heel, catching himself on the flyer when his shoes slip out from underneath him, “chalk it up to a Christmas miracle, I don’t care. I never get the recognition I deserve, anyway.”

“You didn’t,” Stone presses, sliding right into Robotnik’s chest with an oomph and a giggle. “You absolute madman.”

Hands hold onto Stone’s hips to keep him steady, foreheads knocking together as the adrenaline high plateaus along with his heartbeat. He can feel everyone’s eyes on them, but his fingers are steady as they come up to fix his partner’s bow tie.

Cat’s officially out of the bag. No going back.

“Timer’s up.”

“That it is, Agent Stone.”

“We should probably get going…”

“We _should_. The 25th is in one hundred minutes, after all. Many things to do.”

Stone puts enough distance between them to properly look at him. “I was thinking about going home and getting some sleep.”

Robotnik cocks an eyebrow in sync to yet another drone explosion from inside the event hall. More screaming. “You smell that? That’s the threat of a court-martial at our door. I don’t know about you, Stone, but I feel like living on the edge tonight.”

“What do you have in mind?”

The Doctor’s mustache curls mischievously, and Stone still marvels at its ability to do so.

Pushing off the flyer, Robotnik deactivates the alarm and powers it on. Canopy pulling back and holographic steps materializing, he steps aside and takes a bow, holding out a hand for Stone to take. “Your carriage, Mr. Charming.”

“That’s my job,” Stone counters, albeit weakly as he places his hand in Robotnik’s waiting palm. “Wait, what about Robin? My Rover?”

“On her way to an all-expense-paid Caribbean vacation, and on its way to the lab where it’ll patiently wait for your return.”

Satisfied with the answers, Stone climbs into the flyer. Before he can ask where to sit, Robotnik pushes him down into the pilot’s seat and drops himself unceremoniously onto Stone’s lap. “Autopilot.”

“You’re heavy.”

Robotnik gasps. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to comment on a lady’s weight? Consider your prince card revoked.”

After some shimming and awkward buckling up, Stone finally dares a look towards the entrance of the building. Not a lot of people are paying attention and the sound of sirens are beginning to encroach in the distance, but those who are turned to them animatedly wave and wolf whistle. Stone returns the wave while Robotnik lowers the canopy and readies the craft.

The dash hums to life, cockpit filled a hazy red that makes Stone feel right at home. “I’m assuming you have plans,” he says, leaning back against the seat and making himself comfortable as Robotnik shifts around, patting Stone’s cheek. “I have so many questions.”

“And I have all the answers, but first!” Snapping his fingers, Robotnik pushes the big red button. “There’s more mischief to see to.”

Stone kisses the arch of his cheekbone. There is no one he would rather get into trouble with on Christmas Eve, or any other day.

___________________________________

“Commander, shouldn’t we stop them?”

“Unless you’re in the mood to single handedly diffuse WWIII during the next forty-eight hours, I highly suggest you let those two be, Major. Eggnog? I heard it’s ‘the bomb’, as you kids say.”

“Sir, the hall is on fire.”

“And yet, not as bad as I expected.”


	3. Please Don't Break It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget the milk and cookies. ❤

The gentle hum of the flyer is a welcome change to the boisterous atmosphere of the evening, easing Stone to relax while idly rubbing circles along Robotnik’s back. The Doctor is uncharacteristically quiet in his lap, with his face tucked against the side of Stone’s own as his fingers trace the medals and badges on the Agent’s jacket.

Moments of contemplative silence are rare, half those times dangerous when Robotnik crawls into the depths of his mind and becomes unwilling to escape. This one is different, however. His Doctor is responsive, cheeks a lovely pink, his breathing even and deep. He’s here, in the flyer, in Stone’s arms, after challenging one of their biggest obstacles yet. The aftermath of which may be uncertain—to Stone, at least, considering Robotnik thinks eons ahead in an impossible number of ways—but they finally took the plunge.

“It’s snowing again,” Stone says, moving his fingers to lightly graze his nails along the back of Robotnik’s neck.

“You might get your White Christmas after all.”

“Did you spy on us yesterday?”

“No need. Olivera and I might have had a night out in town.”

Stone laughs in disbelief, rubbing the corner of his eyes. “I’m surprised she didn’t kill you after the morning we had.”

“I told her you’d come after her if she did.”

“I’m surprised that worked.”

“It didn’t, hence the Caribbean vacation.”

“Did I tell you how handsome you look?” Stone pats Robotnik’s knee when the flyer engages its landing sequence. “White is a very good color on you.”

Robotnik crosses his arms with a shrug. “Lookup the term ‘eye candy’ on Urban Dictionary and you’ll find a picture of me. As for you, I mourn the drab excuse of a dress code for a ‘ball’.”

“You’ve seen me in better. And in less.”

“Now, now, Stone. The intention is to _not_ get on Santa’s Naughty List.”

“You mean to tell me we can’t get raunchy until tomorrow?” The flyer lands near soundlessly, but Stone keeps Robotnik in place with a hand high up on his inner thigh. “There go my plans of taking you by the fireplace…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about getting you out of that tuxedo you’re wearing just for me.” 

Robotnik kisses Stone, awkwardly fumbling in the pilot’s seat to straddle his legs with his hands fisting the front of his jacket. “Tease,” the Doctor gasps out between breaths, the stroke of his tongue making more than just Stone’s leg jerk with arousal. Robotnik wrenches himself away, shaking his head. “No. No no no no _no_ , I will not let those teenage hormones of yours ruin tonight for me.”

Stone blinks up at him, holding his hips to keep him from falling back onto the dash. “I’m forty, but also, ruining _what_ , exactly?”

Robotnik beams, patting his shoulders. “It’s a surprise! You better not hate it.”

“When have I ever hated anything you do?”

“There’s always a first time for everything. But! Hold on.” The Doctor draws the silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket, shaking it out before expertly folding it a long tell-tale strip. Stone tips his head forward for Robotnik to blindfold him with it. “Watch your step, there’s snow out. Oh wait.”

“Haha. The least you could do is hold my hand like a proper gentleman.”

“I’m neither of those things,” Robotnik says, and Stone focuses on the satisfying sound of the canopy retreating with a depressurizing hiss. Next, the weight is gone from his lap, and that is followed by the nippy caress of freezing wind. “A little chilly out, but no time to get that adjusted.”

Stone is still in disbelief regarding Robotnik’s claim of controlling the weather, but he lets it slide. It’s a cute little joke, harmless, and the Doctor sounds proud of himself for it. 

Gloved hands take one of his unclad ones. “Up, step over two inches, and there’s the first step. Surprising the wonders that can be done when following simple instructions.”

Tightly gripping Robotnik’s hands, Stone blindly maneuvers out of the flyer and onto terra firma. His teeth chatter involuntarily, getting a laugh out of him as his shoes slide over wet snow. “Where are we?”

“Patience, Stone. Patience.” 

Familiar beeps go off beside his ear and his hand is let go, arms immediately flailing around for balance. He tries not to move and focuses on listening to decipher what’s going on around him, tension easing off when music drifts in from all around him. The instrumental kind that plays in the background of holiday commercials, meant to incite a sense of nostalgia to happier childhood days.

Stone is grabbed by the biceps and nudged forward until his shoes no longer slip. “Figured if ever there were a person who’d I return a favor for, it’d be you,” Robotnik says, slipping a finger under the blindfold and pulling it off without preamble before stepping away.

Stunned silent, Stone can only hold his breath as his eyes dart around him in hopes of taking it all in at once while letting it slowly sink in.

Agent Stone is a pragmatic man: stoic by trade, romantic by soul. For decades he has denied himself the wants of a common person, the simple little pleasures that make him human rather than the ruthless machine he has been trained to be. Strange how Robotnik both perfected and shattered that persona, elevating him into a flawless assassin and then pushing further to reach between the cracks, albeit unintentionally. It’s been a little over a year since the first time they woke up in his bed, physically sated but emotionally stunted. Impenetrable fortresses at the mercy of the world’s most vicious military dogs.

Stone, _just_ Stone, is a man of flesh and blood who enjoys watching Hallmark movies by himself during the holiday season, curled up on his couch and drinking wine. Every once in a while, he granted himself permission to daydream, inserting himself into senseless movies where the lead’s biggest problem was an obnoxious cousin or misplaced Christmas gifts. Harmless little fantasies that were just that: fantasies.

Romcoms don’t happen in real life, but then again, he _is_ dating a comically eccentric mad genius fresh out of a thirty year dry spell with an army of machines at his beck and call.

“Doctor…you did this?”

Hundreds of warmly sparkling lights surround them on strings of gold, glimmering from pine tree to pine tree that are adorned with freshly fallen snow and stylish black and white baubles. The patch of concrete he stands on is cleared, snow pushed to the sides to create miniature hills that enclose them in a tiny winter wonderland. But more impressive yet is the view when Stone makes sense of where they are.

The skyscrapers and office buildings that comprise the skyline surrounding Robotnik’s safehouse are dark in the absence of its usual haunts, all gone for Christmas. Their glass windows shine with multicolored lights and tacky office decorations, those closest reflecting the set up on Robotnik’s rooftop. In the distance, even the bridge’s lights flash red and green, as cars make their way home to their loved ones as snow continues to fall on that peacefully silent night.

“The girls did most of the heavy lifting,” Robotnik says, taking Stone’s hand and giving him a twirl along to the slow jazz. “Oh! In a brilliant bout of inspiration, I decided to let them choose where to get the trees, really testing out those decision making capabilities.”

Stone does a double-take, stepping in close for a dance, hand on Robotnik’s shoulder. “How did they do?”

“They located the nearest tree farm and _choose for themselves_ which to laser down and transport! At first, I thought their decisions were random but—nope! At the lack of precise information, they defaulted to varying specimens with drastically different characteristics.” Robotnik sighs with blissful satisfaction as they aimlessly sway. “With some fine-tuning, the AI can be fitted for enhanced terraforming once self-replication systems are satisfactory enough to not necessitate human intervention. _I’m a genius,_ Stone.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’m also nervous!”

“You shouldn’t be,” Stone assures him, “it’s no different from the usual Thursday in the lab.”

“This reeks of romantic commitment.”

“Excuse you. Speaking as if we haven’t been an ‘item’ for however long now.”

“It’s an orphan’s parody of meeting the parents. All dressed up, fancy dinner, people are crying, everything is on fire.” Robotnik spins him again before he can protest. “We need better music.” With a few taps to his gloves, a familiar pop song— _Leo Sayer, late ’70s_ —begins to play. It’s one of the many songs that can be found in both their libraries due to its versatility within the range of good moods.

“Surround sound. I’d say I’m impressed—”

“Don’t hold back on my behalf.”

“—but everything you do is amazing.”

Robotnik smirks, eyelashes glittering with collected snowflakes despite bobbing his head to the beat. “Amazing, you say?” He dips Stone before stepping away from him, shoulders swaying. “Even my dancing?”

“ _Especially_ your dancing,” Stone says with a laugh.

“Then dance with me.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Neither are very good dancers. Robotnik could be if he adhered to standard style rather than to his energetic flailing, and Stone can barely tap his shoes to a beat, but none of that matters when it’s only them atop the world, slipping on snow and laughing at Stone messing up the lyrics. They spin and slide, Robotnik doo-woping to his solo bits before rejoining Stone under the cover of sprinkling midnight clouds.

Stone tries to moonwalk and Robotnik shows him how it’s done. He ends up doing the Electric Slide instead. They fake-swing dance, a stunt that makes Stone lose his balance when Robotnik swings him away from his body, sending the Agent crashing face first into a fresh pile of soft snow.

“Physics!” Robotnik shouts, clearly delighted with himself when Stone rolls onto his back, laughing until his face is red for more than one reason. The Doctor masterfully slides over to him, letting the momentum take him down, too.

Stone rolls out of the way in time but Robotnik seizes him before he can get too far, rolling him right back to his spot on his back even while curled in from the guffaws. There’s a giggle-snort or two in there, prompting a lifted eyebrow from them both.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stone wheezes, trying to catch his breath but struggling twofold thanks to the snow he’s pillowed in.

Beside him, Robotnik flops onto his back and attempts a snow angel. “There is a potential for coordination here, Stone. Practice is the only thing that’ll get you up to speed with my sick dance moves.”

Sitting up, Stone shakes snow out of his hair. “Practice does make perfect.”

“And perfection can always be improved upon, of course.”

“You’re calling me perfect?”

“No, I was calling myself perfect by insinuating I would offer my services to help you practice.”

“Ah, I see, I see.” Stone turns to look at Robotnik where he lays, hands behind his head and eyes closed, lips tilted upward into a happy little smile that melts a heart-shaped hole right through the mound of snow they’re on. “I love you.”

The change is barely noticeable, Robotnik’s mouth twitching under his mustache as he takes a measured breath. “I know.” He abruptly sits up, busying himself with brushing off Stone’s jacket. “Otherwise, this whole shindig would’ve been awkward.”

“I’m sorry that that’s the only thing I have to offer,” Stone says, unable to shove it all back into the pristine box he’s kept at his cuff for years. “I don’t know what else to give to the man who has it all. Sometimes I think back to that first night, to whatever came over you, and then our first actual date, and just everything that’s followed since and I marvel that for the first time in my life I understand…I just _understand_. And I want you to understand, too, that there will never be any other place that I would rather be than right here, with you, forever. Because I love you. You’re _my_ Doctor, and I adore you.”

Like a needle to a balloon, Stone finally feels the pressure that has lived in his chest deflate to something comfortable. Still present, but survivable. Even at the utterly gobsmacked look on Robotnik’s face.

The Doctor opens his mouth and Stone braces himself, but he closes it again. His eyes lose their permanent flitty edge, a look akin to serious thought blindsiding Stone. “Ah.”

“Ah?”

“You’re not leaving.”

Stone’s confused blinks are met with a bright stare. “I…wasn’t intending to? Doctor?”

Robotnik leans in to slot the bridge of their noses together and stays there for a moment, a hand coming up to caress Stone’s cheek. “You’re shivering,” he says, the words a caramelly-warm Stone isn’t at all used to. “We should head inside.”

“I…we…yeah.” Stone clears his throat. “We should. Nobody wants to catch a cold.”

Robotnik hops to his feet and helps Stone up, giving him a spin as they walk towards the hidden elevator door Stone had no idea existed. Behind them, the music begins to fade into silence as the Badniks begin their shutdown sequence for the night, as all good children must do on Christmas Eve.

___________________________________

The crackling fireplace in Robotnik’s spacious entertainment room warms Stone in more ways than he can count. Divested of his dress blues and lounging in nothing but his boxers, socks, and undershirt, the only reason why he’s not freezing is due to Robotnik’s own scantily clad form under the weighted blanket they’re wrapped in. Only their hands peek out, each nursing their own glass of eggnog.

The room is bare save for the wall-mounted frame meant to host a holographic screen, and a nice Italian leather couch they’re currently leaning against. The plush carpet underneath them (meant to keep Robotnik from losing his footing when immersed in VR gaming) is an added layer of comfort that nearly lulls Stone to sleep. But best of all is the view: the east wall is made up of one-way-viewing glass (artillery proof), and while they’re too high up to be bothered by city lights, the glow from below is enough to illuminate the still falling snow.

“We won’t be able to get out tomorrow if this keeps up,” Stone says, taking a swing of his eggnog. “Real shame.”

“I have no intention of getting out of bed.”

“Not even for a walk? Maybe ice skating?”

Robotnik sniffs, nuzzling the side of Stone’s head. “If you’re set on it. But I’m gonna insist on not until after noon.”

“You’re being awfully accommodating. And I didn’t even have to bribe you with sex.”

“That’s hardly a bribe. I figured working with me this long would have taught you a thing or two about the art.”

“Hm. I guess I can’t barter with something we both want, huh.” Stone presses closer against Robotnik, watching the snowfall as he rests his weight against the Doctor’s chest. “You didn’t answer my question from earlier.”

“You didn’t ask one.”

“You thought I was leaving?” He briefly considers Robotnik having overheard his conversation with Walters earlier that evening, but that doesn’t seem to be it. “I would like to know what you meant by that.”

Robotnik takes a sip. “Life,” he begins, as if dramatically reciting Shakespeare, “is but an amalgamation of patterns.” Stone eases off him in favor of leaning sideways against the couch, eyebrow raised as the Doctor continues. “Repetition, learned behaviors that not only affect the pattern-e but the pattern-er. You getting it? You picking up what I’m putting down?”

“I think that’s enough eggnog for you, babe.”

“No one’s ever stayed, Stone. I’m curious as to what makes you so different.” The nonchalant attitude bites colder than the wind outside the window, a stark contrast to the actual somberness of his tone. “If randomness truly is nature’s engine, our insignificant Pale Blue Dot lucked out on the slim to none parameters for life, then even rarer yet is having you right here, at this moment, existing on the same wavelength. What in the thirteen point eight billion years of existence possessed you to choose _me_?”

“I didn’t,” Stone says, putting down his glass to carefully tip Robotnik’s face towards him. “Feelings and emotions are just chemical reactions, as you say. I can’t control that. All I know is that one day I took a good look at you and though ‘damn, he’s a bit of a looker’,” the Doctor smiles at that, and Stone sees it as a victory, “even when you yelled at me for spacing out immediately after. Everything else sort of just followed. I’m not a genius, I don’t know what the numerical odds are, and quite frankly I don’t care.” Stone kisses the curl of his mustache, running warm hands down his arms. “We’re like hydrogen and oxygen coming together to create water.”

“Talk elementary science to me,” Robotnik quips, brushing their mouths together briefly.

Stone ducks his head, resting it on the Doctor’s bare shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere, Ivo. No matter what next year or the next decade brings. Government assigned, privately contracted, or just…your civilian boyfriend if it comes to it. I’ll be right here. Keeping you company, making you the best damn coffee, warming your feet.”

Robotnik nods his head, and the movement is so small Stone thinks he’s imagined it. He sucks in a breath however, lowering his head to gaze into the fire. “You’re more than the sum of your productivity. To me. Your existence sparks joy.” Clearing his throat, Robotnik reaches for Stone’s hand under the blanket and gives it a squeeze without looking away from the flames. “Your _love_ is more than I’ve ever received. Or even deserve.”

“You deserve the universe,” Stone whispers in reply, kissing his temple, “and I will readily serve it to you on a platter.”

“Stone?”

“Doctor.”

“I have something for you.”

“Is it my own exoplanet?”

“For once, you might want to lower your standards,” Robotnik says, carding his fingers through Stone’s hair before disentangling himself from their blanket cocoon. Stone immediately picks up the slack and tightens it around himself as he watches him disappear down the dark hallway.

In that brief moment of solitude, Stone takes the time to breathe and center his thoughts in this unexpected island of vulnerability he has found himself alongside his partner. The difference between Robotnik’s usual flippant admissions and tonight’s hushed confessions have left Stone feeling anchored to his Doctor’s shore. Forever trapped in his agonizingly bright event horizon.

The padding of bare feet on plush carpet signals Robotnik’s return. No longer in his underthings, he’s sporting a brand new pair of red and black plaid pajamas, and a gift bag in his right hand.

“Those look comfy,” Stone says, straightening up when Robotnik drops to his knees in front of him.

“Feel them.” Stone does. “High-end boyfriend material.”

“That’s the oldest joke on the internet.”

Robotnik winks and hands him the bag. “Consider it an early present for necessary reasons.”

“It’s not Christmas until after we sleep, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, but! There are plenty of cultures where it is customary to open one present on Christmas Eve.”

“We’re American.”

“Just open the damn thing.”

Stone rummages through the bag with more excitement than he’s felt in a very long time, removing decorative tissue paper until he reaches a soft bundle neatly folded at the bottom. “Are these really…” pulling it out, Stone shakes the pajamas free, “matching?” Prying himself from the blanket, he lays out the buttoned shirt and pants over his leg, tracing his embroidered initials almost reverently. “Doctor, they’re so tacky.”

“Can you believe they cost me a small fortune on 5th? At least they’re soft. You also look good in my colors.”

“I look good in everything.”

“And in nothing,” Robotnik states matter-of-factly, grabbing the ends of the blanket and yanking it out from underneath Stone. “Go freshen up and slip them on. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

With a soft snort, Stone surrenders the blanket by standing up on shaky legs. “Should I get us anything from my room?”

“We’re sleeping.”

“…That doesn’t answer the question.”

Robotnik gives him a deadpan expression which Stone kisses away before grabbing their glasses and chuckling his way into the kitchen.

Glassware washed and hung up to dry, and a reusable water bottle in hand, Stone powers down the rooms behind him with a spoken command and disappears into the bathroom to quickly wash up and brush his teeth. He slips into the pajamas and looks himself over in the smart mirror—little blue text tags popping up and informing him of fabric type, the precise symmetry of his beard, and the bruise on the left side of his neck that was received in a very pleasant exchange earlier in the evening.

Satisfied, Stone crosses the hallway into Robotnik’s bedroom, the door sliding shut behind him with a familiar release of air. He places the bottle on the Doctor’s table and grabs a small bottle of lotion from the bedside drawer as he retreats to his usual side of the bed.

“The ensuite is here for a reason,” Robotnik says as he leans against the door frame that separates the room from the bathroom, cleaning his ear with a cotton swab. “We’ve shared worse.” 

“Sharing the ensuite would feel like we’re living together.” Stone is intercepted before he can sit, Robotnik tossing the swab in the bin while pinching the back of his shirt and making him turn around. “Like, officially.”

“Are we not?”

“I still have my place.”

“Something could be arranged.”

“Doctor.”

“Suddenly, you’re old school.”

“Gotta aim for _something_ , after all.”

“Oh?” Robotnik says, unbuttoning the shirt and prying it off Stone’s shoulders.

“What are you—”

“He now has relationship standards. Guess what, _Agent_ , so do I. Get on the bed. Give me the lotion.”

Perplexed, Stone does as he’s told and, shirtless, gets under the covers. He watches Robotnik activate multiple layers of security as he closes the bathroom door and lowers the bed’s side curtains, leaving him to ungainly crawl up from the end to make himself comfortable beside Stone. 

Without any sort of input, the empty frame on the wall opposite the bed comes to life with a realistic holographic fireplace, and Stone wonders if the smell of burning tinder is somehow real or just imagined. “Cozy. Why’d you take my shirt off?”

Robotnik plucks up his hand and applies lotion onto the smooth skin, carefully rubbing his palms and the spaces between his fingers. “I like your chest.”

Stone stretches out his fingers, feeling his gut flutter with pleasure as Robotnik massages away. “Seems like a shame, wasting all that money on something you’d rather I don’t wear.”

“By all means, you can wear it in the morning.” Robotnik takes his other hand, delivering the same treatment. “Tonight, I rather you don’t.”

“But we’re just sleeping.”

“Just sleeping.”

“Okay.”

Lotion stored, light off, and the last curtain panel finally unfurled, Robotnik pushes their pillows together, but it doesn’t really matter. Under the heavy blankets, Stone opens up his arms for Robotnik to slot into, chest to chest, head underneath chin. The position likely won’t last very long due to the Doctor’s propensity to flail in his sleep when he gets too comfortable, but that’s alright. As long as they both lull each other to sleep, and wake up in the same bed, that’s all that truly matters.

Wrapped up in each other, safe and warm and happy, Stone shifts enough to bump their noses together. “Thank you for tonight,” he mumbles, hand trailing down the knobs of Robotnik’s spine. “It really was unforgettable.”

“There’s still tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Goodnight, Stone.”

Bringing him impossibly closer, Stone smiles against his forehead. “Merry Christmas, Doctor.”


	4. All I Want is You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all you lovely people! ♡

He isn’t sure what wakes him, but Stone momentarily rises above the surface of sleep without opening his eyes, internal clock alerting him that it is not yet six in the morning. The familiar scent of sage informs him of Robotnik’s proximity before the warmth and weight of him does, Stone adjusting himself to physically feel their change in positions. Sometime during the night, Robotnik had turned away from him and Stone had followed, now pressed up along his back and nose in his hair.

It’s the stillness that has Stone opening his eyes, the dim light of the fireplace not making much of a difference in the sea of blankets and pillows. Delayed consciousness finally catches up to him, realizing that Robotnik is stroking his hand where it lay draped over a bony hip. He makes a sound to alert the other of his wakefulness.

“It’s a little past three,” Robotnik mumbles against the pillow, scooting back closer to Stone. “Go back to sleep.”

“Why are you awake?”

“Bad dream.”

Stone pulls the covers higher, making sure they’re both shielded against the chill air. “Whose ass do I gotta kick.” He feels rather than hears the Doctor’s amused huff. “I mean it.”

“The incorporeal specters of my past.”

“Aren’t all specters incorporeal?”

“You’re more awake than I thought.”

“I am,” Stone sighs out, moving the hand Robotnik had been caressing up underneath his shirt to stroke the warm skin of his belly and trace idle circles around his navel. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Robotnik doesn’t immediately answer and Stone can sense the mental labyrinth being traversed in the tightness of his muscles. Dread has a specific taste to it, one that lingers on the back of the throat like sawdust on a dry day.

“Theoretical situation:” the Doctor eventually says, too loud within the confines of their bed, “our bodies grow immune to the continuous release of endorphins and serotonin we endure.”

“I’m not _that_ awake.”

“One day I wake up and I’m over this.”

“Go on.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I don’t think I could ever fall out of love with you.”

“ _I_ could,” Robotnik says, a hard edge to his words that is not unfamiliar. “I do it all the time, lose interest in even my most sacred of projects. One moment: my entire life. The next: want nothing to do with it. _Snap_. There and gone, folder buried in the darkest abyss of my servers, never to be acknowledged again.”

“Your point?”

“ _Doesn’t that bother you?_ ” he repeats, this time annoyed. “Knowing you’ve wasted your invaluable time and efforts for something as fleeting as human emotion?”

“No,” Stone answers, getting up on an elbow to look down at him. “What’s the use of living if you’re not going to enjoy what makes you happy, even when it’s fleeting? I feel my feelings now, I’m here now, at this precise moment in time. A person can’t live in tomorrow or the day after, so you take it one moment after the next. Strive for the future, live for the present.”

“Willful ignorance of oncoming disaster.”

Stone considers him for a moment, mining for meaning. “High school sweethearts sometimes grow old together, while some whirlwind romances crash and burn within the week. You can’t predict the future when your variables include individual human behavior. Besides,” Stone combs Robotnik’s hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear, “even if the world implodes or you decide you want nothing to do with me anymore, I’d cherish every one of these moments _because_ I lived them to the fullest, happy. Because you made me happy.”

“Ever the outlier.”

“And I consider us both lucky for that fact.”

Robotnik breathes deep, nudging Stone with his shoulder to make space in order to roll onto his back. He stares up at the thick linen canopy, his eyes wide and attentive in the twilit room. “I choose to believe I inspired some type of affection in him,” he confesses, so quietly his voice may as well belong to someone else. “Infatuation, obsession, _something_. He had the unfortunate flaw of being human. It was only a matter of time before his interest drifted elsewhere.” His laugh is bitter, far divorced from its usual sarcasm. “You’re a better man than I can ever be, Stone. No such thing as digging up nice memories for me! All I’ve ever felt since then has been a blinding sense of apathy neatly tucked under a couple hundred metric tons of government contracts.”

Carefully, Stone curls his fingers around Robotnik’s own beneath the covers.

As a man with a job that lends itself to enemies as copious as sand to a desert, Stone has a long list of individuals that, were they to ever breathe the wrong way, he would not hesitate to make sure their lungs never worked again. The faceless stranger from Robotnik’s past sits comfortably at the head of the table, plucking the strings of the bleeding young heart served before him. Stone has known contempt, has known _hate_ , but never once has he allowed himself to be consumed by those emotions.

He’s beginning to think that, at least once, it would be better to let that flame burn and consume indiscriminately.

“I would _never_ ,” Stone begins, only to be interrupted by Robotnik patting his cheek and shushing him.

“I’m not a child, Stone. I may have allowed myself to be blinded stupid _once_ , but I’ve long since learned to analyze my mistakes. Have I learned from them? Absolutely not, elsewise I wouldn’t be as smitten as I am. I’m making a whole orgy of new ones.”

“You’re so certain you’ll regret this one day.”

Robotnik scoffs. “When have I ever regretted anything? I get fucked, fucked over, fucked up, lump an extra dose of thinly veiled self-loathing for a couple’a decades, et voilà! Back to square one. Rinse and repeat. I may be smart, but I’ve never owned up to being wise. It’s practically my personality by this point.”

“Here I thought you held me to some esteem compared to him.”

“Oh, you’re worlds different. Saintly. The sole reason this world hasn’t devolved into a pile of insignificant rubble. I’m referring to the overall situation.”

“So, me being a decent human being has no impact on the inevitable outcome of this situation?”

“Nope! ‘Cause I’m still me.”

_There it is,_ the root of the evil that has haunted the Doctor for so long. It has never once crossed Stone’s mind that Robotnik blames himself for that disaster of a relationship, if he could even call it that. That unguarded pain is not considered as such, but just another notch on his belt of ‘flawed human’, an unnecessarily necessary lesson Robotnik categorized as yet another failed experiment—one he carelessly removed his safety gear to perform and got viciously maimed as a consequence.

“Maybe I’m biased,” Stone says, giving his hand a squeeze, “or maybe I’m just a bleeding heart for thinking that even the eccentric supervillain from a shitty kid’s movie deserves to be loved. I can’t promise you the future, but I can promise you right now. Hell, if I may be so bold, I can promise you four hours from now. Perhaps one day you’ll get tired of me, and you’re allowed to.”

“What would you do?”

Stone shrugs. “Write a sad poem, I don’t know. I don’t know and that’s okay. It’s okay to not have all the answers all the time. Keeps you on your toes.”

“Unstable, unreliable creatures, us humans.”

“You could always try modifying us as a species, kickstart that cybernetic evolution you love talking about.”

Robotnik finally shifts his eyes to look at Stone, their gleam reflecting the holographic firelight. “You always engage with me, even while out of your element.”

“I like listening to your ideas, even as a mere agent.”

“Did _you_ ever sleep with anyone during your college years?”

Stone scratches his beard, thinking back to the time before he sold himself over to the military for a bite to eat. “Yeah. Nothing serious, though.”

“He banged the ‘L’ word right out of me.”

Stone gasps out a surprised laugh he immediately feels bad for, burying his face against Robotnik’s chest to muffle anything else that might escape. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

But Robotnik only chuckles in turn, patting the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. My first and only time and here you are, gaining amusement from my trauma.”

“I just think it’s endearing how little you’ve changed, apparently. Nothing gets you talking quite like a good dick—”

“ANYWAY,” Robotnik loudly interrupts, “to summarize, I hate the uncertainty of human relationships.” Moving his hand to card through Stone’s hair, he gives it a little tug. “But you, you rascal, have flawlessly convinced me to run a second field test.”

“How are those results looking?”

“Further testing is required due to the impact of external stressors, however…” Robotnik lets go of a sigh, more sleepy than tired, “I’m afraid current projections show the need for long-term experimentation due to stabilized variables and headstrong agents-slash-assistants.”

“Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“The best kind.”

Stone lifts his head to meet Robotnik’s half-lidded eyes as they begin to swim. “I mean it, you know.”

“I know.”

“You know me well enough to know what it would take to make me stop.”

“Hopefully, it’ll never come to that.”

“You don’t have to promise me the future,” Stone says, resting his forehead against Robotnik’s chin, “just this second. And this one. And this one. And this one.”

“I get it, Stone. One moment at a time.”

“Get yourself a man who can teach even a genius something.”

Robotnik somehow manages to bite his forehead. “You’re on thin ice, mister.”

“I’ll take you down with me.”

“Till death do us part.”

Stone’s heart slams against his ribcage, the pain it causes a delicious kind he can easily find himself addicted to. “Till death do us part,” he returns, softly, fearing that Robotnik would catch his blunder and take it back, but all he gets is an affectionate squeeze to the back of his neck.

___________________________________

Their early morning conversation drifts in and out of Stone’s consciousness as readily as he does, buried under the heavy blankets, and cushioned among the large pillows that keep their shared warmth trapped in the cold room. Lying on his side, he extends his foot in search of company, swinging it around more aggressively when it fails to make contact.

Stone sits up, pulling back the covers to reveal Robotnik’s absence. “So much for sleeping in,” he tells the room, grabbing the pajama shirt that has been neatly set out at the foot of the bed. A pair of new slippers await him by the bedside table, and he wastes no time slipping into them, shirt coming on and buttoned up as he shuffles his way out of the bedroom and into the bathroom for his usual morning routine.

It’s the smell that attracts his attention once he’s properly groomed, leading him down the hall, down the staircase, and into the main kitchen area that is hardly ever used due to its massive size. Music fills the space alongside the sound of miscellaneous kitchen wares, and Stone wouldn’t believe the scene before him if anyone else were to describe it.

Robotnik moves around the kitchen with the same sharp efficiency he does in the lab, with a little dance here and a precise measurement there, flipping the contents of a skillet with the grace of a man who builds delicate weapons of mass destruction for a living. A burst of flame, the Keurig set to brew, the smell of onions and garlic and peppers.

“I took the liberty of disarming your alarm this morning and I’m disappointed your internal clock failed to wake you. And by disappointed I mean grateful because there was no way in hell I was going to be up at seven to make breakfast.”

“I don’t usually have eventful nights preceding lazy mornings,” Stone explains, a little perplexed himself when he catches sight of the 10:05 on the ironwood kitchen clock. “That smells amazing.”

“Nothing too grand, just a Southwest tofu scramble with Cajun breakfast potatoes, and a side of quinoa and chia porridge garnished with mango and guava imported directly from Puerto Rico.”

Dumbstruck, Stone finally steps into the kitchen, careful not to throw off Robotnik’s groove as he peers into the pans. “That sounds delicious.”

“It is.”

“You can cook.”

“Cooking, sciencing, all the same really. Both are just as edible if you aren’t a coward.”

“Remind me to get you an apron next year. Like one of those cheesy hipster ones with the mustache prints,” Stone says, grabbing a cooked potato cube and popping it into his mouth before Robotnik can swat him with a spatula. Symmetrically cut and perfectly cooked through, he’s once again surprised by this unexpected turn of events. “Can you do latte art?”

“Can you do latte art, he asks. Make yourself useful and grab some plates.”

“On it.” Turning towards the island, Stone pauses when a bright glint catches his eye in the neighboring room. He leans over just enough to get a better look and his task is immediately forgotten.

Stone walks around the counter and into the main living area, with its minimalist and futuristic décor set aside in favor of a more traditional scene. Charging towers have been tucked away and in their usual spot is a Christmas tree so huge Stone wonders how it was maneuvered in. Tasteful garlands line the walls along with colorful lights and small decorations made of cheap plastic: bells, icicles, holly, reindeer heads, and Santa hats. A mistletoe hangs above his head, on the beam dividing the kitchen and the living room, and Stone wants nothing more.

It dawns on him how clever the roof setup was, forcing them to take the back entrance rather than the main entryway and spoil the surprise.

And it is quite the surprise.

“A certain elf dropped some presents off before her flight,” Robotnik says, coming up behind him and gesturing towards the pile of gifts under the tree.

“She knows about this place?”

“She may have lent the girls a hand.”

“Look at you making… _acquaintances_ ,” Stone says, careful not to say the ‘friend’ word.

Robotnik grumbles something unintelligible before a timer goes off in the kitchen behind them. “Aha! I hope you’re hungry.”

“For a kiss?” Stone says, puckering his lips while nodding his head towards the mistletoe. The Doctor rolls his eyes but concedes, giving him a peck and twirling back into the kitchen.

Stools pulled up to the island, they share their breakfast while chatting animatedly about the smallest things that come to mind, be it old school blunders or childhood memories of mischief and expulsions. Stone inundates Robotnik with praise for the unspeakably delicious food, the Doctor preening like a bird and waving him off with a nonchalant laugh. They drink their coffee in relative silence, however, listening to the music and letting it sway them as they exist peacefully in each other’s spheres.

“The world hasn’t imploded,” Stone says, elbow on the counter as he knocks his slipper against Robotnik’s shin. “I think we’re in the clear.”

“Shame. It would have made for a great story. I was thinking Hollywood.”

“Who would play you?”

Robotnik thinks for a moment. “The guy who played the Grinch.”

Stone lifts an eyebrow then shrugs. “I don’t see the resemblance.” Another sip. “That one guy from that one BBC show should play me. The one they cancelled a few years ago?”

“Oh, _yeah_. Very specific description, I’m sure you two are _practically_ twins. It’s uncanny.”

“I think they’d have great chemistry.” Robotnik kicks his stool and Stone would have fallen over if not for his quick reflexes. “Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m right.”

“You’re lucky.”

“In more ways than one.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes but doesn’t contest, finishing his coffee and making no effort to stand. “Last night was an improvement compared to the last conversation we had on the subject.”

“It gets easier,” Stone assures him, “the more comfortable you get with someone. Imagine how next time will go.”

“I don’t want to.”

The song changes, and the difference is significant enough to garner their attention. They spend a moment listening, the lyrics—while overplayed—pluck at Stone’s heartstrings as he watches Robotnik minutely sway from side to side.

“Time for presents?”

The way Robotnik’s eyes light up confirms Stone’s personal theory: he would lay the world to waste if anything or anyone would ever dare cause him harm.

“I thought you’d never suggest it!”

He’s gone in an instant, dishes forgotten for what is likely to be hours.

Stone almost calls him childish before thinking better of it, realizing that this is probably the first real Christmas Robotnik has ever had, let alone one shared with someone else. He swallows around the feeling that blooms in his chest as he watches, the Doctor carefully picking up the boxes and holding the ones from Stone to his ear, giving them a shake before dropping them off beside the large couch.

Funny little thing, that feeling called love. No rose-tinted glasses here, but the occasional snapshots of unexpected tenderness so readily shared is a precious gem to be stored away in Stone’s breast pocket. Always close to his heart. 

Genuine happiness. Bright-eyed peace.

“Are you just going to stand there? Christmas ends in thirteen hours.”

Stone laughs, toeing off the slippers once he crosses the room and lets himself drop onto the couch. “What should we open first?”

Robotnik thoughtfully taps his chin and grabs the biggest box addressed to him. Inside is a blanket far smaller than the ones spread around their respective homes, dark blue in color with subtle gray constellations printed on it. The Doctor presses it to his face and hums pleasantly. “Soft.”

“Portable,” Stone explains, “if ever you just feel like wrapping yourself in a blanket during late night projects. Or…if we want to make use of the workbench.”

“Multiuse. I like it. Here.” He hands Stone a small box. “You’re a difficult man to shop for.”

“Tell me that once you’ve tried getting you a gift.” Stone opens it to find a bottle in the shape of a crescent moon. He uncaps and takes a whiff, eyebrows shooting up at the rich scent. “Oh, _very_ nice.”

Robotnik scoots closer, excitedly taking the bottle of cologne and giving it a try. “Mandarin, neroli, saffron, nutmeg, and cardamom,” he says, nodding sagely. “It’s a similar arrangement to what you were wearing when we first met. But this is _acceptable_ compared to whatever Target body spray that was.”

The cologne does smell faintly familiar, but he trusts Robotnik’s memory more than he does his own. “You never fail to impress me, Doctor. Thank you.”

“Give me another one.”

They cycle through smaller gifts: a pair of monogrammed socks for Robotnik with a matching scarf (Stone having remembered his lack of cold-protection gear), a pair of gloves for Stone that—upon noticing the discrete set of buttons—nearly sends him into a panic concerning the power Robotnik is literally putting in his hands (he doesn’t, though, not wanting to make Robotnik feel bad). 

Lastly, Stone presents him with a wooden box decorated only with a small white bow. “This one’s delicate.”

Nodding his head, Robotnik joyfully slides the latch and opens the palm-sized box. His eyebrows knit together as he plucks up the gold string and pulls the glass snowflake from the cushioned interior. “An ornament.”

Stone worries the back of his neck. “It’s kind of a tradition? Everyone in my family had one at one point. Here, let me show you.” Reaching over, he takes Robotnik’s hand and holds it at an angle, revealing his lasered name and year in the light. “Basically, you hang it up every year to show who’s part of the family. Sometimes people married in, or kids were born, and we’d add a new one that year.”

Robotnik lays the glass snowflake on his open palm, tracing its outline with a finger. He sniffs, and Stone does not look away when his eyelashes grow wet and his lower lip trembles. “Where’s yours?” the Doctor asks, clearing his throat.

“I left mine behind when I signed on,” Stone explains, resting a hand on Robotnik’s knee. “It didn’t feel right, carrying it around when nothing ever felt like home. Figured my parents could use something to remember me by.”

“You never talk about them.”

Stone shakes his head. “You’re free to ask whatever you like whenever you’d like.”

“Are they good people?”

“They did their best.”

Robotnik nods and unfurls himself from the couch, walking over to the tree to hang the ornament on one of the highest branches. A red light slowly strobes behind it and Stone sees him smile, satisfied with the new addition. “I have no traditions of my own, but there is one more thing,” the Doctor says, taking the one box he had left at the bottom of the tree. He stands there, drumming his fingers against it in a tell-tale sign of nervousness. “Credit where credit is due, I— _consulted_ —on this.”

Intrigued, Stone brings up both legs onto the couch. “No shame in that.”

The box he is handed isn’t wrapped. It’s the smallest of the haul, a rich black velvet against his red sleeves. Stone caresses his fingertip along the seam, calming his heart while rationalizing that it is too thin for it to be what he thinks it is. Biting the tip of his tongue, he pries it open.

On a bed of red satin is a pair of diamond cufflinks.

That panic from earlier manifests once again, this time seizing twice as tightly. _It’s too much,_ he thinks. The gloves he can forgive, made by Robotnik as they are, but genuine diamonds—he wouldn’t even _wear_ them when all he ever sports are his standard issue suits for work.

Robotnik watches him with sharp eyes and a disconcerting intensity, as if someone hit pause as a means to delay the inevitable. 

However, Robotnik is not a patient man when it comes to matters outside of his control.

“I was told a ring on Christmas Day would be a faux pas,” he says, crossing his arms, still standing in front of Stone.

A memory equal parts fun and terrifying is that of his childhood self continuously pressing the fast forward and rewind button on the VCR until the VHS tape screamed and spilled out black tape through the slot. Stone feels a lot like that VCR. “Wh—I—Doc—?”

“Yes, Stone, _I’m asking_.”

Or, maybe, he’s more like the VHS tape as a million half-formed words that mean absolutely nothing spill out of him at the speed of sound. He has to put the box on his knee and dig his fingers into the couch cushions as he processes the unasked asked question.

_This is big. This is huge._

“I…I didn’t think…I never thought—you just don’t…you’re not the type, I didn’t think you were, that you would ever even consider something like this when everything is how it is and you’re you and I’m me and like…uhm, wow?” Stone blinks, blinks again, sucking in a deep breath that is meant to be calming but instead works like oxygen to a fire. “Wait, I’m reading this right, right? You mean, this is meant like—”

“ _Stone_ ,” Robotnik says, snapping fingers in front of his nose, “pull yourself together.”

“Yes.” He drums a beat against his thighs, firmly nodding his head as he recalibrates his entire existence in the fraction of a second. Looking down at the cufflinks, he nods his head again. “Alright. I’m sorry about that. These past couple of days really threw me off my axis.”

Robotnik continues staring at him as if he’s grown a third eye. “I think I can now say I’ve seen every possible facet of you. What the hell was that?!”

“You caught me off guard, I’m sorry,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This whole everything—” Stone stops talking, blown away by it all. “Get down here.” Robotnik sits back down the couch and Stone immediately goes to him, hands wrapped around his neck and foreheads pressed together. “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, there will never be anyone else for me.”

Robotnik shuts his eyes with a huff, shifting to drop a kiss on Stone’s cheek. “That’s not an answer. Try again.”

Stone laughs as they rearrange themselves on the couch, wrapped in each other’s little bubble of holiday cheer and a sublime sort of bliss that cannot be taken away from them. As the music continues to play and Robotnik wraps his new blanket around them both, they kiss softly, lazily, as the world outside continues to move forward, oblivious of the two men who were once lonely.

“I would love nothing more, Doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they were _fiances!_

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter @ **[astramaxima](https://twitter.com/astramaxima)!**


End file.
